Page 62 of The Musician and the Monster

Ceridwen had stepped away from him, forming an odd triangle between the three of them. Her sister had found her, coming to her side instead of the men. But whose side would Ceridwen take? He appraised her from the corner of his eye. She hadn’t spilled his secret yet, that he knew of, though she’d had days to do so.

Would she now? Something dark within him demanded she try it. Let her join him or condemn him. Either way, the agony of her indecision had to end.

Drystan turned his head to stare at Ceridwen, pinning her with his gaze and twisted smile. “A wolf, you say?” he said with an even calm. “Ask your sister. She saw it last.”

Bronwyn clutched her arm, pressing in against his coat that her sister still wore. The men waited for her response as he expected they would.

But Ceridwen paid them no mind. She looked only at Drystan as she said, “It’s true. He protects us all.”

A shudder racked his form, desire surging between his legs. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to lift her into his arms, carry her away, and show her exactly how much her words meant to him, propriety be damned.

“Ah yes, he protects us all,” Adair slurred, ruining his daydream. “And that’s why he made a certain deal with you.”

The slander implied in those words made him snarl. “How dare—”

“Adair, go back inside before you embarrassus!” Bronwyn shouted over him.

Normally, such an interruption would be unwelcome, but this one gave him the moment he needed to think. He had one chance, this chance, to save Ceridwen’s reputation, and he’d be damned before he failed her again. “Your sister had a close encounter due to my failure,” Drystan replied, raising his voice so no one would dare miss it. “I sought to ease her burdens, and that of your entire family, in compensation for my error. Surely you cannot take issue with that.”

“And what about the rest of us? You’re supposed to protect us all, yet thatthingstill haunts the night,” one of the men shouted.

“I’ve been ill. Ceridwen”—he looked at her for emphasis—“has been able to heal my ailment better than any medic I have come across. She is invaluable to me,” he added, letting emotion flood his eyes and hoping she saw it, that she understood. He glanced at the men. “Unfortunately, I require further treatment while I am here, which is why I have requested her continued service. Such an honor it is for a commoner to aid a noble.” His gaze shifted to land squarely on Adair. “Your house is brought higher by her service and care.”

“Now, this is a sight.” Malik whistled as he joined the growing group of onlookers standing to one side, Bronwyn and Ceridwen at their front.

Goddess, help me.Drystan groaned. The night could scarcely get worse.

“Who are you?” Adair practically spit, having lost any regard for class or station.

Malik raised his hands in the air. “An interested party? Ladies,” he said to the sisters, inclining his head in a courtly nod. The scathing look Bronwyn shot him could have stripped paint. How he offended her, Drystan had no idea, but it was the least of his worries at the moment.

“Enough of your excuses.” Adair pulled the sword from its sheath and tossed it away. “Let’s see who’s more of a man. Duel me!”

“Stop it!” Ceridwen rushed between them, turning this way and that to look at them both. “This is nonsense!”

“I won’t hurt him,” Drystan promised.Much, he added silently. The man was deep into his cups. Besting him would be easy. And for Ceridwen’s sake, if nothing else, he’d make sure her brother suffered no lasting ill effects.

Malik smirked, enjoying the scene way more than he should. Another man hustled forward from behind Adair, offering Drystan a sword, which he accepted.

Ceridwen grabbed at his sleeve. “Drystan, please.”

The pleading look on her face made him want to give her anything, but he needed to teach her brother a lesson. “Trust me.” He pulled away from her touch. “Stay with your sister.”

Drystan loosened his cravat and rolled up his sleeves, but kept his mask in place as he faced Adair in the falling snow. The young man had shirked his coat, tossed it to a nearby friend, shed his cravat completely, and rolled up his sleeves as well.

“Last chance to reconsider,” Drystan offered.

“Preparing to lose already?” Adair ran his hand through his snow-dampened hair, mussing it up worse than before.

Adair raised his blade and charged with a reckless lack of caution, roaring like a warrior on the battlefield.

Drystan chuckled as he sidestepped, easily dodging the onslaught without the need to parry. Adair skidded to a halt on the snow-slicked ground before whirling around like an angry bull, reading for a charge once more.

Even sober, Adair would stand little chance against him. Drystan had years of lessons in sword fighting, and though it had been some time since he’d had to use such skills, the sword felt as natural and easy in his grip as it ever had, old honed instincts returning to him like a hound called home.

With a grunt, Adair pushed a stray strand of hair from his face. He regripped the blade, took a few quick steps forward, and swung. This time, Drystan blocked the blow with his sword. Metal sang in the air before Drystan flicked the opposing blade away.

Another swing yielded a similar result. And another. The young man’s swordplay was sloppy at best, wide swings projected far in advance with little skill and less grace. He’d stab himself before ever landing a solid blow.

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